


Filial

by 222Ravens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Father's Day, Gen, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222Ravens/pseuds/222Ravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how they spend their Father's Day, as always, in silences fraught with meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filial

**Author's Note:**

> Found this sitting around on my computer, written QUITE a long while ago, and figured I might as well post it now. Slightly late, but... I'm sure it's still Father's Day somewhere in the world, right?
> 
> TW: for references to suicide, eating disorders, and drug abuse.

Mycroft sits in the Diogenes club most of the morning, waiting.

 

He isn't idle, far from it. The first hour is spent dealing with the elevated tensions over the human rights situation in a certain Middle Eastern country.

 

The second hour in a futile effort to deal with the Moriarity 'situation'.

 

He may not be able to solve _that_ problem, not easily. So he switches, and does manage to defuse a possible coup in Central America by artificially inflating the wholesale price of copper. He ignored any incoming calls. There are several, from the home office, the CIA, the PM, and worst of all, _Mummy_. He lets them all go through to voicemail, just this once. It was still a relief when Sherlock finally arrived, just before lunch. Covered in bruises and dirt, but present. 

 

The door had opened with a loud bang, bringing the sounds and exhaust of London swirling into the club. Disturbing the carefully controlled silence and perfume of wood polish, cigars, old books, and power, Sherlock had swept in, coat swishing over-dramatically behind him.

 

His brother's appearance drew a few stares from some of the other members. Several recognized Mycroft's brother after a moment, and returned to their papers or silent chess. Normally Mycroft himself would be among those staring with disapproval at his brother's behaviour. For today, however, he refrained.

 

Sherlock gave the barest of a nod in acknowledgement to his brother. Seemingly exhausted by this modicum of civility, he collapsed, boneless, into the elegant armchair beside him. 

 

Mycroft sent a single text, clearing his schedule, and set the phone aside. He looked at his brother. Sherlock looked back, with what he probably considered an inscrutable expression. Sherlock is _very_ good at inscrutable. Mycroft, however, is far better at reading people, especially as pertains his erstwhile and oft wayward brother.

 

Recent disagreement with Dr. Watson, mostly likely due to stress and Sherlock's attempt to cut back on nicotine patches. Just finished with a case with the last few hours, Mycroft could tell, another relatively high profile one. It discomfits him, this publicity, especially with the Moriarity issue. That jury had clearly been rigged, but the question was what the man's... _No._ He pushed the thoughts aside. Time for that tomorrow.

 

Two lunches arrived a short time later, without prompting. It's delicious, of course. He would expect no less, here. They eat together, finish, and sit some more. Coffee comes, and Sherlock has some, stirring an obscene amount of sugar in to it.

 

Another hour passes, and while Sherlock checks his phone just once (a text from Dr. Watson), mostly, they simply... Sit. It's almost pleasant, this rare and taciturn companiableness. They do not speak-this is the Diogenes, after all, and they are the men that they were raised to be. Not known for their grand expressions of feelings. A liability, those, almost invariably.

 

He watches his brother though, and his brother watches back. It is one of the many unspoken things between them, this annual lunch on this day. A silent declaration of sorts, a bridging of wide gaps.

 

He remembers the first one. 

 

_Sherlock was barely twelve, Mycroft  eighteen. Their_ _father_ _had been dead for four months, buried and then not discussed further, except in tight words and meaningful silences. They were Holmeses. They were carrying on._

 

_But today, Sherlock was home from boarding school for the weekend, his brother on a break from university.  Mycroft, walking the halls of their manor, he heard a muffled noise from his_ _father_ _'s former study._

 

_He was discomfited. None of the servants were permitted in there while his_ _father_ _had been alive, and none of the family had been in since his death. Eventually it would be cleared out, but there were enough rooms in the house for the moment. No one wanted to do anything with the room his_ _father_ _had shot himself in._

 

_He pulled open the door, quietly, and saw his brother sitting backward in his_ _father_ _'s chair, holding a pencil up in one hand as a measuring stick and staring at the wall._

 

_The blood and stains have been scrubbed clean, the rug where the body had fallen taken away, and the hole in the plaster patched, but it was easy enough to tell where the bullet had lodged after traveling through bone and brain. The paint was lighter there, from being newer, less dulled by years. Some things weren't so easily hidden._

 

_Sherlock doesn't turn around, barely even blinks as Mycroft silently crosses the room to stand beside the chair. They stare at the wall without speaking. Mycroft's hand moves as if to touch Sherlock, then away before he does._

 

_His brother sets down the pencil, and turns to Mycroft with brimming eyes. "I was trying to see if it was possible that... That it was an accident, or someone else might have done it."_

 

_Mycroft's heart squeezes, but he schools his features into a mask. "What did you conclude?"_

 

_"It wasn't. "_

 

_"Ah."_

 

_"I should have seen it. I notice lots of things, but I didn't predict this, and I didn't stop it. Neither did you, but you were away so much, so I understand that. What good am I, what's the point of our minds if we couldn’t even notice? Because I'm not as naive as you think, I know he must have been planning this for a long time. I saw the note, it had been written well in advance of the...” His face crumples, and the tears flood._

 

_Mycroft lets him cry, stands beside him while he does. When it has subsided, he hands his brother a pocket handkerchief, and lets him dry the tears._

 

_"Emotions cloud judgement. We were too close, it didn't let us see the truth. "_

 

_He takes in a deep breath, wishing he did not so desperately have to say this, but the lesson had to be learned._

 

 _"Hearts break, and cannot be unbroken by wishing. Lives end, and tears will not bring them back, nor will dwelling on things that cannot be changed. Care too much, too strongly, or for too long..._ This _is the end result of it."_

 

_It's obvious the 'this' he is referring to, as Sherlock hands the handkerchief back to Mycroft, neatly folded. "But I do care. It's not something I can stop." Sherlock says dully._

 

_"So do I. But it is not... It is only an advantage so long as it helps you to achieve what you must. Anything past that, and it is a liability. Do you understand? Care too much, and… Well.” Mycroft presses his lips together._

 

_"I miss him."_

 

_"Yes. As do I. But that will not fix anything that has happened, or will happen. Emotion in a vacuum is meaningless. Action changes things. So do plans, and goals, and the unravelling of puzzles and threads, and ensuring that what must happen, will happen, no matter the cost. These are the lessons we must learn, Sherlock. If we wish to survive. The world is cruel. It broke our father. Do not let it break you.”_

 

_“I won’t.” Came the childish promise._

 

There were days when Sherlock had done his best to renege on that promise. Days, indeed, when Mycroft himself had. He thought of drug overdoses and hospital visits and rehabs, stabbing and gunshots and mad bombers on Sherlock’s side. He thought of eating disorders and nagging depression, quiet loneliness, and assassination attempts on his own. And wondered how they had stood strong for so very long. 

 

But yet, despite far too many close calls to count, far too many cracks and endless terrible fragilities… The world had not broken either of them just yet.

 

Mycroft does not intend to let it.

 

And after a while, Sherlock leaves, depositing a small wrapped box on the table as he goes, without a word.

 

It's a set of cufflinks, and Mycroft knows they have been regifted, and there was no declaration of fraternal love or thanks or even a note attached, and Mycroft does not send one in return.

 

But this... Their wordless luncheons and their wordy, harsh 'family dinners' with Mummy, their sniping and spying and interferences in each other's lives, the drug overdoses and national security threats and weight insults and CCTV cameras, the regifted presents and proffered cigarettes in morgues...

 

Neither of them will admit that it is love. Perhaps neither will ever speak those particular words. It is not their way.

 

But on this particular Father's Day, to simply call it _family_ and leave it at that is more than sufficient. There will be time later, if they so choose, for sentiment.

 

He doubts they will choose it.

 

Still, there's time later to say such things. 

 

There will always be time later.

 


End file.
